


No More Yielding But A Dream

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Flirts With Everybody, Jaskier Flirts With Yennefer A Lot, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: They are fighting, Geralt’s grip on the amphora unrelenting, and then he utters his last foolish words. All the stories of djinns speak of their malevolence, how they twist wishes to harm their master.Geralt wishes for peace, and then slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 441





	No More Yielding But A Dream

‘I just want some damn peace!’ 

They are bickering and sniping as they have a hundred times before, although Geralt’s ill humour has turned the argument more vicious than Jaskier would like. He is the only person for a hundred miles brave enough to weather a Witcher’s temper and get up in his face anyway, and Jaskier always thrills with it, every time. Geralt never has to reign himself in or watch his words around Jaskier. He can say what he likes to Jaskier, and Jaskier will do the same. He hasn’t seen Geralt in a while, the winter months spent in the arms of his fickle muse the Countess de Stael, and being banished from her side was more a boon than a hardship.

They are fighting, Geralt’s grip on the amphora unrelenting, and then he utters his last foolish words. All the stories of djinns speak of their malevolence, how they twist wishes to harm their master. 

Geralt wishes for peace, and then slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. 

The sky is dark around them, and Jaskier can only sense the djinn as a heavy pressure in the air. There is nothing he can do to chase it off, he only stands in front of the Witcher’s crumpled body and shouts for it to fuck off, screaming vengeance and dire retribution.

The air settles after long tense moments, and he turns to Geralt with tears already streaming down his face. He reaches out a trembling hand. The Witcher is cold, but he waits for long minutes before he feels the thump of that slow heart beating. Jaskier slumps to the ground himself then, relief clogging his throat. Geralt is still alive. 

He shakes Geralt with futile hope and screams in his ear as loud as he can. Lifting his eyelids does nothing, save a glimpse at golden eyes staring unseeing straight at him. Jaskier curses then, and pulls at his hair, fretting.

Djinns and magic are nothing he has any idea how to deal with, he’s a bard, for goodness sake. This is all more Geralt’s sort of thing. He breathes deeply, inhales and exhales, calming the huge spike of worry rolling around his belly. 

Geralt is unconscious or cursed. He has Roach standing nearby, and he has to get help. There is nothing in a Witcher’s saddlebags that will fix this and pouring potions down Geralt’s throat could fuck this up even worse. He doesn’t have many options. 

He pats Geralt once, for comfort, and the Witcher looks much less grumpy than he had when he was awake. Roach is easily led for once, and Jaskier even manages to coax her into laying down after pleading and promising the finest apples he can source. 

He looks between the saddle and the slumped Witcher and mutters a heartfelt ‘Fuck.’

Geralt is denser than a bear, muscle packed tightly atop muscle. Jaskier grumbles insults about his parentage and his questions about whether he eats rocks fall on deaf ears, as always. It’s not that much different than normal, except that Roach is normally in charge if Geralt is out of action. At least he’s not in his armour and is more easily shifted asleep than he ever would be awake. Jaskier can shove and push him with all his feeble strength when Geralt is upright, and he won’t rock an inch. 

Jaskier heaves him onto Roach one massive limb at a time and manages to stop him slipping right off again as Roach scrambles up, Geralt flopping about like a landed fish. He slips into the saddle behind Geralt, sort of holding as much of the Witcher as he can get his arms around, and people really will talk after this. 

There’s not many places that Jaskier would class as safe territory to put his hands on a man like this, but Geralt is dead to the world, bent over the saddle like a kidnapped princess, and the nearest place to steady him is that shapely rear. He pats it once for luck, and then gets a firm hold. It will hardly help Geralt to fall from his horse and crack his skull, and it is a matter of life and death. He’s pretty sure Geralt will forgive him this once.

They ride, haltingly, towards an encampment further down the main road. Jaskier is a fine horseman, but this was never covered in his childhood riding lessons. 

As they approach he calls for help, and a handsome elf strides over.

‘Please, noble sir, do you have any healers here? Or those learned in magic? My friend is in desperate need of aid.’

‘I will do what I can’ replies the elf in a lovely lilting accent, and if Jaskier had more time he would be sure to make his acquaintance more thoroughly.

‘I am Jaskier, at your service.’ He says, sketching a bow as best he can while atop a horse and keeping his grip on the Witcher’s arse.

‘Chireadan.’ The elf says, flashing him a quick smile as his hands flutter over Geralt’s slumped form. 

‘My apologies, Chireadan, I would remove your patient from his steed, but it took me so long to get him up here in the first place.’ Jaskier leans closer as the elf opens Geralt’s eyelids himself. ‘My companion is a Witcher, laid low by foul magics. I have not the skill to aid him, but rode as fast as I could to you, as dashing a rescue as I could manage.’

Chireadan snorts, and his hands fall back to his side.

‘I am afraid there is nothing I can do for him.’ Jaskier’s heart sinks to his boots. ‘This sorcery is beyond my talents. You will need the help of a powerful mage.’ Jaskier nods grimly, cursing his fool luck.

‘Thank you so much for your assistance, kind Chireadan, I will not forget this. If the bard Jaskier can do you any favour, you need only name it and it will be done. Do you know where I might find such a powerful mage as we’re going to need?’ 

The elf looks away for a second. 

Jaskier focuses his attention, eyes narrowing for a moment before he begs as prettily as he knows how. ‘Please. I beg of you, a name. I cannot rest until he is restored to life.’

Chireadan looks hesitant. ‘The mayor says they are dangerous…’ 

‘Please.’ He implores softly, his eyes wide and managing to look as pathetic as he can.

‘There is one mage. I was tasked with bringing this mage to justice. But I was unable to penetrate certain defences. The mayor himself has made the catch and imprisoned the mage in his house.’

‘Fuck.’ Jaskier says, slumping in the saddle. 

‘Be careful. The mage is powerful and malicious.’ Jaskier swallows audibly. ’And quite cunning.’

‘Do you have any advice?’ Jaskier asks, mind working away at any leverage he can possibly bring to bear. ‘Anything I should know before I throw myself on their mercy?’ 

‘She is very dangerous. And has very little mercy. Her name is Yennefer of Vengerburg.’

Jaskier nods, solemnly, and manages to wheel Roach around in the direction Chireadan points. He shouts his thanks over his shoulder, and they continue on.

Jaskier is a bard, and a very good one, and one of the best things about being a bard is that you get all the gossip. He has heard of Yennefer of Vengerburg, once Aedirn’s mage, now distanced from the Brotherhood in some mysterious way that never reaches the tongues of mortal men. He puzzles out his approach, and takes the opportunity to straighten his appearance as they ride on, fluffing his hair and pinching a blush into his cheeks, in the faint hope that his notorious charm might work on such an infamous sorceress.

They reach the house, and Roach whickers gently to warn him of the guard’s approach. Jaskier has only a second to think, and slips into the best disguise, posture regal and proud. 

‘You there,’ he blusters, not letting him get a word in, ‘Where the devil is the Mayor?’

He slips into his crispest Redanian accent, mimicking the sneer perfectly. The guard starts to open his mouth and he waves a hand impatiently.

‘Never mind, just help me get this fellow down, will you?’ The commanding tone stops the guard in his tracks. ‘The horse will need stabling, and if I hear of any tomfoolery I’ll have you whipped.’ 

The poor man just nods obediently. Together they get Geralt off Roach’s back, and Jaskier props him against the wall like a sack of flour. His medallion falls out from his shirt neck, and the guard starts making signs to ward off evil.

‘For goodness sake man!’ Jaskier says, not listening to his babbling about touching Witchers, and diseases or some rot. ‘Fine, I’ll carry him. Hold his arms.’

In no short order Jaskier is carrying Geralt piggyback style, gripping those huge thighs around his waist and desperately not thinking about it. The guard holds the door open for them. He is starting to look less confused by now, and his brows furrow, coming to his senses. 

Jaskier barks ‘The horse, man!’ and he scurries off. Best to keep people on the back foot, and Jaskier always aims to be the most confusing person in any room.

Jaskier staggers through the house, the heft of Geralt’s huge bulk sending sweat dripping down his back. He would love to be able to pick the man up easily, but even miles of walking with a Witcher can’t build enough muscle to ease the strain.

Jaskier stops in his tracks, and Geralt’s head lolls forward against his neck.

There is a naked man standing in the kitchen. He drops a jug as he stares at them, and beams.

‘Welcome to my house!’

‘You’re the Mayor?’ Jaskier says, sniffing in disdain. ‘Where’s Lady Yennefer?’

He just beams, clearly moonstruck. ‘Ah, the apple juice! She wants some. And she always gets what she wants.’

Jaskier regards the jug on the table. The jug regards him right back.

The mayor slumps into a chair and snores. He doesn’t have any hands free, and if he takes Geralt off his back he will never get him on again.

He sighs, and leans forward, Geralt’s hair tickling his cheek, and grips the handle of the jug between his teeth.

Apple juice secured, he climbs the stairs, and follows the smoke and faint music into an orgy.

An excellently lit orgy, he thinks idly, comparing it to past endeavours. 

People are fucking everywhere, and Jaskier’s trousers feel rather tight as he steels himself to continue onward. He catches sight of her, and it can only be the mage, displayed to great effect at the other end of the room.

Dark hair, crimson painted lips, and an extremely flattering dress, shoulders barely covered by the little straps, managing to look indecent even surrounded by debauchery. He likes her already.

Jaskier continues on, and the sorceress watches the little parade approach with interest. He wades around people fucking, never breaking eye contact, and tries to walk as seductively as he can while carrying a man the size of a small bear on his back.

He makes his way up to her, and bends forward, slowly and delicately presenting the apple juice in as pretty a surrender as he can manage. She reaches to take it from his mouth, and strokes one long finger against his lips as she snags the handle.

‘Your apple juice, my lady.’ He says demurely, and lets Geralt slip slowly off his back, as soft a landing as he can, and finally stands up straight and bows over her outstretched hand. He presses a kiss to her knuckles and looks up at her through lowered lashes. She really is extraordinary to look at, violet eyes arresting behind that delicate lace mask, a rare vision. The rest of the world, the people fucking acrobatically behind him, everything but the two of them and Geralt’s hollow body fades from his mind. 

‘And you are?’ She says in dulcet tones.

‘Viscount de Lettenhove, Jaskier at your service, my lady. And you are the famous Yennefer of Vengerburg. An honour.’ He smiles, best courtly manners on display.

‘You are rather overdressed to be attending one of my entertainments.’ She says, watching him intently.

‘Only the most dire need could compel me otherwise, fair lady, and perhaps the matter can be rectified later. My dear friend and noble companion is in need of aid only you can offer.’

Her attention turns for the first time to the crumpled heap of Witcher on the floor beside them. 

She frowns and stands to inspect him closer. ‘His heartbeat is very slow.’

‘He is a Witcher, wise Yennefer, and cursed to remain asleep.’

‘Apple juice and a Witcher?’ she says, raising one immaculate eyebrow.

‘I only bring the best presents.’ He grins rakishly, and then looks down at poor Geralt, slumped and senseless.

‘Can you help him?’ 

‘I can try, but it will cost you.’

‘Any price, my lady. Name it, and it will be yours.’

She merely smiles at him, shark-like and predatory. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Geralt was by the river…’ Jaskier begins, but she interrupts.

‘This is the famous White Wolf?’ She says, wrinkling her nose. 

‘I am flattered. Such an illustrious sorceress as yourself, having heard my music?’

‘You write the songs about him?’

‘I do, my lady, and I would be honoured to pen one in your honour, should you desire it. But let us leave music and flattery aside for the present. He found a djinn and made a foolish wish.’

‘Only the one?’ and something about her tone catches his attention. There is open, naked want there, and Jaskier has found her price. She circles him hungrily, eyes raking over his face.

He nods, and delicately says, ‘Can we repay you with one of the remaining wishes, Lady Yennefer? My companion is a kind and honest man, though fierce, and he will honour any promise I pledge in his name.’

Violet meets blue, and her gaze is piercing. 

‘One of the djinn wishes, in exchange for your friend waking. Done.’ And with that she turns back to the debauchery behind him, snaps her fingers and says ‘Ragamuffin.’

The orgy judders to a less than pleasing climax, and the participants shuffle out the door as Jaskier heaves a sigh of relief.

Yennefer smirks, and waves one hand idly, making Geralt float in the air, leading them to a bedchamber. She sets Geralt down gently on the bed even as Jaskier hovers. 

‘Let me work in peace. Your friend will be returned to you whole and unharmed.’ She says, if not politely, then at least not without some amusement. ‘He is just a friend, I hope?’

Jaskier turns then, caught off-guard. ‘Yes…?’ He says, voice lilting into a question, not sure if that answer covers their whole ‘Jaskier’s unrequited love-Geralt’s exasperated tolerance’ ambiguity, or why she’s asking.

He makes his escape, standing at the door and bowing to her deeply in thanks once more, and heads down to the kitchen to find more juice and wait for the sorceress to work her magic.

Hours later, the tapping of heels comes down the stairs, and Jaskier perks up from his worried pacing immediately. 

Yennefer appears, looking more wilted than she did before, but still radiant. 

‘He still sleeps.’

Jaskier slumps, downhearted.

‘I’ve the answer for you, but you’re not going to like it.’

‘Anything, my lady. I won’t rest until he wakes; I will fetch the stars themselves if you require them.’

‘Djinn magic is very powerful. I examined him as thoroughly as possible. There is only one cure.’ She looks hesitant. ‘True love’s kiss.’

Jaskier blanches. ‘Bollocks.’ His courtly demeanour slides right off his face, and he slumps onto the bench, head in his hands. ‘You’re sure?’ He says, muffled.

‘Unfortunately.’ She sighs. ‘There go my plans for the evening.’

Jaskier pokes his head up again. ‘What?’

‘I will fetch the stars themselves?’ She says, scoffing. ‘And you expect me to believe this Witcher is just a companion on the road?’

‘I-‘ Jaskier stutters. ‘Well, I’m very fond of him, but I wouldn’t say love, except in the manner, of course, which one loves all things, and…’

He comes to a halt as she just stares at him.

‘Fuck.’

He drags his feet on the way up the stairs, babbling excuses. ‘-don’t want to be punched in the face, you see, he’s got a cracking right hook, and it would rather spoil our arrangement, if you will, if it’s all laid out there in the open, and I can’t make a blackened eye look dashing, it really doesn’t work for me as well as one might think…’

Yennefer sighs, and pushes him over to the bed. 

‘One kiss, bard, and then if it doesn’t work, I’ll be needing those stars.’

He looks down at Geralt’s sleeping face, peaceful and beautiful and swallows audibly.

‘Here goes nothing.’ And then Jaskier bends down to kiss him. 

Geralt dreams, and he is lying on a bed being kissed. Jaskier’s lovely warm scent surrounds him, and he feels well rested and comfortable. Everything is soft and nothing hurts, and he wriggles a little in delight and just keeps kissing Jaskier sweetly, chasing his mouth as he tries to pull back and grumbling pleadingly when dream-Jaskier moves to press a kiss to his forehead instead.  
Jaskier smiles down at him, pretty blue eyes fond. He smiles back, helplessly. A very good dream. 

Then a strange woman sits up beside Jaskier and says, ‘Hello there.’

Geralt yelps and falls off the bed.


End file.
